


today is someday

by anetherealmelody



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Cutting, Depression, Exiled TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Nightmares, Sad Toby Smith | Tubbo, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Toby Smith | Tubbo Misses TommyInnit, niki and fundy and quackity and ranboo are terrified for him, tommy is exiled, tubbo can't sleep, tubbo is depressed, tubbo wants him back so badly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28398948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anetherealmelody/pseuds/anetherealmelody
Summary: Every night in his nightmares, he watches his best friend die. It is more than exhausting. It is more than draining.It is haunting. It is excruciating.He does not think he can take much more.Or: In which Tommy is gone, and Tubbo is not alone, but he might as well be.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Floris | Fundy & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Niki | Nihachu & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Ranboo & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 44
Kudos: 436





	today is someday

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a Twitter thread discussing how sad Tubbo's character was—how much he's been through, etc.—and I was just so heartbroken. I've written and seen so much of the exile arc from Tommy's POV...I wanted to write it from Tubbo's, too. Long story short, it led to this. This all takes place in Minecraft (of course), and it takes place shortly after Tommy's exile. 
> 
> Also, I'm not going to tag major character death because technically Tommy doesn't die, but since this is from Tubbo's POV, it seems like he does, so...yeah. 
> 
> MAJOR TRIGGER WARNINGS // major major angst, self-harm, cutting, suicide (explicitly mentioned and also implied), suicidal thoughts, strong themes of depression, nightmares, drowning (mentioned)

In his nightmares, he is running. 

Always. As fast as he possibly can, and then faster, still—until his legs are jelly and his feet fall off and his heart explodes. 

He isn’t being chased. He is the chaser—he is chasing. 

He is not fast enough. He is never fast enough. 

///

He wakes up screaming. 

He scrambles out of his bed and across the room. His breaths are fast, desperate, shallow—he stares at his bed and sees a beach. He stares at his blanket and sees an ocean. He stares at his pillow and sees a boy—drowning, drowning, dying. 

He was not fast enough. He has never been fast enough. 

He sinks down the wall—wrenching his eyes shut, clutching his stomach because it quiets his sobs.

There’s a knock on his door.

“Tubbo?” Quackity asks—quietly, warily. It’s the first time he’s stayed the night in the White House—Fundy and Ranboo had left three nights ago on business, and Niki is visiting a friend out of town. Tubbo is young, so he is here to supervise, to protect—but how can he? How can he defend Tubbo from something that exists only in the darkest depths of his mind? 

Fundy always picks a book up and reads until Tubbo trails off. Ranboo always tries to talk him through it, fails, and talks instead about his childhood. Happy memories, always—and never surrounding water. Niki always holds him tight, rocks him back and forth, rubs his back, and murmurs that he’s all right, that everything’s all right. On especially bad nights, she sings quiet and beautiful and tranquil songs that lull him into false comfort, into false peace—only for him to fall asleep and wake up minutes later.

None of them are here. 

Quackity is unfamiliar with Tubbo’s patterns, with the haunting recurrence of his nightmares, so he does not knock again. He mutters that the noises “Must’ve been a mob,” and he pads softly away.

Tubbo curls into a ball on the floor. His tears flood the carpet, adding to yesterday’s dried pools. They stain the carpet dark gray, but they are nothing next to the yesterday’s stains of dark red. 

A shut pocket knife sits in the middle of that dried blood. It taunts him. It begs him. What waits on the other side of consciousness is _pain_ —pure, unadulterated, absolute _pain_ —so, maybe, if he gets used to it while he is awake, he will better cope when he is asleep. 

Maybe, it is an escape. Maybe, it is relief when he has none. 

Fundy and Ranboo and Niki always arrive before the temptation presents itself. They are not here, now. 

No one is here. 

His silent sobs do not subside. He reaches out and wraps his fingers around the knife. It is cool. It is welcoming. 

He slides the blade open. 

///

“Morning, Tubbo!”

“Hi,” he says. He sinks down into his seat at the head of the table. His sleeves are long—they pool over his fingers. He grips them in his fists like a lifeline. 

“How’d you sleep?” Quackity asks, smiling kindly. 

“Well, thanks,” he says. He tries for a smile, too, and hopes it doesn’t come off as a grimace. “You?”

“Pretty good. This came for you, actually. I think it’s from Wilbur.”

Tubbo takes the paper, unfolds it, and reads it absently. 

_Tubbo,_

_It’s been too long, friend! Everyone’s talking about how beautiful the reconstruction is coming along. I’m sure I’ll agree—you have incredible vision. Can I come by sometime and see for myself? You can put me to work!_

_Hope you are well! I love and miss you!_

_Ghostbur_

Tubbo lowers the paper. He stares at the tablecloth. 

“Do you know what’s up with that?” Quackity asks after a few stretched moments, chuckling.

Tubbo blinks his eyes up. “What?”

“Why he’s calling himself Ghostbur?”

“Oh,” Tubbo says. “I don’t—I haven’t talked to him in awhile.”

Quackity furrows his eyebrows. “Are you sure you’re okay, Tubbo? You look…you seem a little…”

Tubbo yanks himself into the present. He smiles as brightly as he can. “Sorry,” he says. “Just woke up, is all.”

“Did something happen last night? I could’ve sworn I heard—” 

Tubbo shakes his head. “Don’t worry, Big Q. I promise I’m perfectly fine.”

“All right,” Quackity says slowly, carefully. “You let me know if there’s anything wrong, yeah?”

Layers of dried blood stain his arms. His throat is raw from crying. He watches his best friend die every single night. 

“Nothing is wrong,” Tubbo says. “But, sure. I’ll let you know.”

Quackity smiles his gratitude. 

///

“And nothing else has come?” Tubbo asks. 

“Not to my knowledge, no. I gave Quackity Wilbur’s letter, but—”

“I know, I know,” Tubbo says. “I got that this morning. I’m just wondering if there’s been anything from…” He clears his throat, shrugs. “Just—if there’s anything else.”

“I can have someone contact you as soon as something arrives, if you’d like. That’s about the extent of my capabilities.” 

Tubbo swallows his disappointment. “That’d be—that’d be great. Thanks, Sam.” He pushes the door open.

“Hey, Tubbo?” Sam calls. 

Tubbo pauses. 

“Is everything okay?”

Tubbo turns, smiles. “Yep. How ‘bout you?”

Sam frowns. “That’s not what I—”

“I’ve missed building the Guardian Farm with you.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, eyebrows furrowed. “You’ve got a lot on your plate, now, though. Are you sure—”

“I’m good! See you around, Sam.”

He pushes through the door.

He makes it three blocks and two streets before finding an alleyway. 

He walks as deep into it as he can before leaning against the wall and throwing up.

///

“Hey,” Quackity says, knocking faintly on the propped open door. 

Tubbo doesn’t look up. “Can you help me with this?” he asks, pointing to a document with his quill. “I don’t understand the writing.”

Quackity takes a couple steps into the room. “It’s pretty late, Tubbo. You might think about calling it a night.”

His mind is fading and his eyelids are limp and his limbs are weak and his fingers are shaking with exhaustion, but the words make him recoil. Every nerve in his body protests the idea.

“I’ve got to finish this,” he says. “Can you come here a sec’?”

Quackity twists his lips to the side, consider. After a moment, though, he sighs, and walks around the desk to lean over Tubbo’s shoulder.

“Right here,” Tubbo says. “I don’t understand what it says.”

“This is a—Tubbo, this is a _building permit_.”

Tubbo blinks up at him. “Yeah. It is.” He looks back down at the paper, whose title reads in big, bolded words: _BUILDING PERMIT._ “I’m not that bad at reading.”

“No, that’s not—that’s not the point. Why are you staying up to read _building permits?_ They don’t need to be finished for another three months.”

Tubbo swallows. He stares at the paper with dry, unseeing eyes. “I like building,” he says. 

“But—”

There is no tenable argument to get him out of this, so he looks up, scowling. “Can you help read this or not?” he demands. 

Quackity furrows his eyebrows. His voice is soft. “Tubbo, listen. I—”

Tubbo drops the paper on his desk. “I’ll just—I’ll finish it tomorrow,” he says, standing up. “I’ve got to go.”

“To sleep?”

_No, no, no, no, no no no no no nononononononon—_

“Yeah,” Tubbo says. When he reaches the threshold, guilt compels him to stop. “Sorry I snapped at you,” he says quietly, not turning around. “I’m really tired.”

“That’s all right,” Quackity says. “I understand. I’m glad you’re going to bed. I’ll clean up in here for you.”

Tubbo shoots him a smile over his shoulder. “Thanks, Big Q. You’re the best.”

///

He sprints through the forest, crosses the beach, and finds a floating body. 

He was not fast enough. He is never fast enough.

He sinks to his knees. The sand burns his skin. He crawls into the water, pulls his best friend from the water, and sobs.

He was too late. He is always too late.

///

Niki returns. 

She’d been reluctant to leave, of course, but he’d convinced her. He is thrilled that she is back—she has been gone for over a week and a half.

He sprints through the hallways to greet her. He ignores the disgusted murmurs of the diplomats— _Look at him run. Like a child, like the child he is. He is not fit to lead our great nation_.—and hurtles toward the front door.

A pair of low voices stop him. 

One is hers, and it’s so, so exciting to hear, but her words give him pause. 

“What are you talking about?” she murmurs. 

“I’m just really worried about him,” Quackity says. “I don’t think he’s been sleeping.”

“Oh, that’s—well, that’s normal,” Niki says. 

“ _Normal?”_ Quackity echoes, incredulous. “He’s 16! How is that _normal?”_

Niki sighs. “It’s—he’s been through a ridiculous amount, Quackity. Things that we can’t begin to understand. What’s normal for him isn’t normal for other 16 year olds.”

“What can I do?” Quackity asks desperately. “I don’t—I can’t ever tell if he’s hiding things from me, or if he’s lying to me, or—”

“He’s always lying,” Niki whispers, sounding heart-broken. “He’s always lying to everyone.”

“What does that even mean?” Quackity asks.

“He’ll do anything for the people he loves,” Niki says. 

“Like _lie_ to them? How is that—”

“You don’t understand, Q.,” Niki whispers. “He doesn’t lie to hurt or deceive. He lies to protect.”

“What?”

“He keeps things buried. You didn’t know him during the war. The Tubbo you know…it’s a front. It’s all a front. He puts on this happy, naive, ignorant persona, just like Tommy puts on his boisterous, dumb, thoughtless persona.”

At Tommy’s name, Tubbo turns away.

“Why?” he hears Quackity asks.

He runs so that he does not have to hear her answer.

He locks himself in the bathroom. He cries. 

Niki calls for him. He does not come out.

///

“I missed you,” Niki whispers.

Tubbo hugs her tighter. “I’m glad you had fun,” he says.

“I missed you,” Niki repeats. “So much.”

Tubbo closes his eyes.

///

In the days everyone had been gone, the cutting had become a habit. He’d wake up screaming, curl up on the floor, and reach for the knife. He had not yet been interrupted. 

Tonight, someone knocks on his door. 

He whips his head around. The knife slips in his grip, slicing down his forearm, drawing a gushing torrent of blood.

He winces—the blood is cold—but it is not painful. He is numb to it. 

“Tubbo?” Niki whispers. “Are you awake?”

He will not deceive Niki as he had Quackity. It is not improbable, it is impossible. He knows this.

Still, he tries. He stands in absolute silence. He does not breathe or think or blink. He stands.

Niki creaks his door open.

He squeezes his eyes shut. He holds his breath. Blood drips from his arms to the floor.

Before she can enter the room, Quackity whispers, “Niki?”

She turns around. The door clicks shut behind her. 

He pushes the knife under his dresser and rushes to climb into bed.

He hides himself in the covers. He wraps an old t-shirt around his cuts to curb the bleeding. 

Moments later, Niki opens the door again. She pads silently into the room.

He focuses on evening his breathing, on keeping otherwise still.

“Well, you must have done something right,” she whispers, “because he is asleep.”

“Are you sure?” Quackity answers.

“Yes,” Niki murmurs. She turns away from Tubbo. “It was very sweet of you. I’m glad to know there’s someone else looking out for him.”

“Of course,” Quackity whispers. “Just—let me know what I can do for him, please.”

The door clicks shut on Niki’s answer.

Tubbo squeezes his eyes shut. Blood leaks from his skin. Tears leak from his eyes. 

He does not sleep.

///

One night, he plans it all out in his mind. 

Someday, he’ll steal the coordinates from Bad. He knows Bad’s been there—it’ll be easy to access. He’ll drink an invisibility potion. He’ll wear his best armor. He’ll sneak away when no one with any political affiliation can notice him. He’ll make it to the portal in minutes. 

He’ll cross the Nether. He’ll kill any mobs that run into him. He’ll skirt around all of the others. 

His feet will carry him of their own accord, because he has lived in this scene every night for the past four months.

He’ll search and he’ll search and he’ll search, and he will find Tommy. 

He will apologize. He will hug him. He will bring him home.

He will sneak into Tommy’s room when he’s fallen asleep, and he will crawl into his bed. They will lie next to each other just like they did when they were little, just like they did during the wars. 

He will never have a nightmare again.

_Someday._

///

“Where are you going again?” Niki asks. 

“Just outside for a few,” Tubbo says. “I need to clear my head.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Niki asks. 

“It’s okay,” Tubbo says, smiling. He pushes the door open. “Thanks, though.”

Niki smiles. 

He doesn’t make it three steps before he’s rammed into. 

“ _Tubbo!”_ Fundy shouts, clutching him tight.

It startles a laugh out of Tubbo. Before he has time for any other response, though, Fundy drops to the floor and bends his forehead to the tile. _“Civilization!”_

Tubbo blinks.

“Ignore him,” Ranboo says, striding up behind him. He’s in full military uniform—from the dark cap to the polished boots. “He’s being dramatic.”

“ _Food!”_ Fundy shouts, scrambling over to a half-eaten fruit platter.

Tubbo turns to smile at Ranboo. “Has he been like this the whole time?”

“Oh, yes,” Ranboo says. “This isn’t the half of it.”

“Sounds like hell,” he says.

“That’s a perfect word for it,” Ranboo says. He hugs Tubbo in greeting. “We missed you, man.”

“I missed you guys, too. We should probably have a briefing, yeah?”

Ranboo squints at Fundy, who’s nearly finished the platter. “Maybe let us settle down for a few,” Ranboo says. “Get everyone together. We’ll change and eat, and go from there.”

“Sounds good,” Tubbo says. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“I’m just glad to be in someone else’s company.”

///

“What happened there?” Fundy asks. 

Tubbo looks up to smile at him. “Are you actually back, now? Or shall I continue to ignore you for being strange?”

“I’m fine,” Fundy says dismissively. He furrows his eyebrows at the spot on the desk where Tubbo rests his arms. “What happened there?”

“What?”

“You’re bleeding,” Fundy says. 

His eyes widen. He follows Fundy’s gaze to find that he is right. Blood is seeping through his sleeves. 

He makes no sudden movements, for Fundy is not stupid. He raises his arm, furrows his eyebrows, relaxes his posture, and _lies_.

“Oh,” he says. “Weird. I fell, earlier. It must be from that.”

Fundy thinks nothing else of it.

///

“ _Who?”_

“Technoblade, apparently.”

Tubbo drops his fork. It clatters loudly onto his plate.

Everyone at the table—Quackity, Niki, Fundy, and Ranboo—turn to stare at him.

He tries to wipe the fear from his face. He swallows his fear, straightens his posture, and turns to nod at Sam. “On these premises?” 

“Yes,” Sam says.

“Contact the King immediately,” Tubbo says. “We’ve got a common enemy in Technoblade.”

///

“I don’t think we’ll have any problems,” Eret says. 

“Will all due respect, Your Majesty—”

“Just Eret,” Eret says kindly. “For friends, of course.”

Quackity’s smile is stiff. Tubbo knows somewhat of the history there—of his friendship with George, of George’s dethroning.

“Friends,” Quackity says, nodding. “All right, Eret. With all due respect, I oblige you to reconsider.”

“Technoblade harbors no hard feelings to my nation,” Eret says. “I apologize, gentlemen, but these matters simply do not concern the SMP.”

Fundy scowls and opens his mouth to speak, but Tubbo silences him with a hand. He asked Quackity to come for a reason, after all—he is far and away the most articulate, the most persuasive, the most rational among them in arguments.

“ _I_ apologize, Eret, but you are entirely wrong. Your logic is clouded with delusion. Dream—the protector of the SMP—has not been seen or heard from in weeks. If you think that he will magically reappear to save you from Technoblade—”

“But Technoblade will not attack us in the first place.”

“Technoblade’s attacks are not built on reason. They are built on hatred for any and all forms of government. There is no telling what he will do.”

“He’s right,” Tubbo cuts in, standing up straight. “He says he is retired, and he shows up on our land. It is unpredictable. Holding out hope for him to spare you is foolish.”

Quackity smiles. Fundy glances at him with something like pride.

“Precisely,” Quackity says. 

Eret hums. “I understand your perspective,” he says. He considers for a long moment. He nods. “We will require time to think. We will be in contact.”

When they’re exiting the castle, Tubbo whispers, “That went far better than I expected.” 

Quackity wraps his arm around Tubbo’s shoulders. “You did well,” he says. 

Fundy punches his shoulder. “ _Very_ well. You’ve grown eloquent in your old age, Mr. President.”

Tubbo rolls his eyes.

///

He thinks he is doing better. 

The day is good. The day is successful. They discuss strategies and fail-proofs and, despite his overwhelming exhaustion, he is lucid. He is able to think He is able to focus.

When night comes, though, and he gets to his room, he whips his door open too strongly.

A book falls off of his desk. He stares.

He has long avoided thinking about that book. He has long avoided even glancing at it. 

He can’t help it, now. Something compels him forward—something like excruciating grief.

He picks it up with two hands. He stares at the cover. 

_Tommy and Tubbo Through the Years_

He opens it to the inside cover.

_Happy Birthday, Tubbo. I know things are…rough this year, and I know you know that they are, so please forgive me for this lackluster gift. I put a lot of work into it, of course, but…well. You know how it is. War, and whatnot._

_We love you. Life wouldn’t be the same without you._

_Wilbur_

He stares until his eyes are dry. 

He falls asleep. He wakes up in tears.

Dark red stains his carpet.

///

“You’re bleeding,” Fundy says, days later.

“What?” Tubbo asks absently.

“You’re bleeding,” Fundy repeats. 

Tubbo looks up, understanding. Fundy is staring at his arms again. 

He hardly got any sleep, so he is not as coherent as he needs to be to handle this. Frantic alarm blares through his mind. He yanks his sleeves over his arms. “Oh,” he says, laughing to alleviate the emotion in Fundy’s eyes, the weight of Fundy’s silence, the sure fear in Fundy’s mind. “That’s just—I fell, earlier. While you were gone.”

Slowly, slowly, Fundy lifts his eyes up to Tubbo’s face. 

“Again?” Fundy asks hoarsely.

Tubbo nods a million too many times to be casual. “Yes,” he says.

Fundy doesn’t believe him. Tubbo can see it in the horrified tilt to his eyebrows, the agonized parting of his mouth.

Fundy knows.

///

He delays the inevitable as long as he can, but exhaustion herds him to bed. He opens his bedroom door. 

The blood on his floor has been mopped up.

The knife underneath his dresser is gone.

///

He has a new nightmare. It is different, but it is the same.

He runs and he runs and he runs. He sprints through the forest and crosses the beach.

He stops on the shore.

A giant cobblestone pillar towers over the rest of the scene. 

A limp, still-warm body lies in a pool of blood at its bottom.

He was not fast enough. He is never fast enough.

He sinks down. The sand burns his knees. 

He was too late. He is always too late.

He has a new nightmare. It is different, but it is the same. 

It is worse.

///

“Hey, Tubbo,” Fundy says the next morning. 

Tubbo jumps—eyes shooting open, face blanching considerably. He is _mortified_ , and he doesn’t know if—he doesn’t know—he can’t—

He turns slowly. His mouth is dry. “Hi, Fundy. How’s it going?”

“All right,” Fundy says, lifting half of his mouth in a strained smile. He hands Tubbo a paper. “This just got scheduled, so I figured I’d—you know.”

Tubbo accepts it, glances over it briefly, unseeingly, and nods. “Thanks,” he says. He turns, eager to get away. “I’ll get on it.”

“Tubbo—”

Tubbo hurries away.

///

The appointment Fundy scheduled him isn’t an appointment.

He missed it this morning, in his all-encompassing embarrassment, and he regrets that, now, for this is far more embarrassing. 

He sits across a woman with her hair pulled back in a low ponytail. She holds a pristine notebook, and sits with pristine posture that perfectly fits the neat, polished, pale room. 

“Hi,” she greets. Her voice is kind. Tubbo despises it. “My name is Puffy.”

“This isn’t business,” Tubbo spits.

She smiles a little. “No,” she says. “But it’s not pleasure, either. I’m well aware of how challenging even showing up to therapy can be, so you’ve already—”

He shoots off of the couch. He strides out of the room.

///

He hears them talking through the door. 

“I don’t know _what_ to do!” Fundy snaps.

“You shouldn’t have gone behind his back!” Niki retorts.“You should’ve told us, at the very least! You’re going to push him away!”

“He’s going to _kill himself!”_ Fundy yells.

He blanches.

The silence rings. 

He wants to move. He wants to barge into the door—to scream that it is _his_ life to end, _his_ life to lose, _his_ life to choose—but, more than anything, he wants to run. Far, far, far away from everything. From all of this. From everyone.

His feet end up somewhere in between entering and running. He stays planted exactly where he is. He is frozen. He cannot move. 

“ _You_ ,” Niki snarls, sounding angrier than he’s ever heard her, “acted rashly. I understand that you are worried. Obviously—we all are. But you should not have done that without telling him. It was a horrible, horrible thing to do.”

“There’s nothing else _to_ do!” Fundy says—desperate, almost, in his vehemence. “If you have ideas, I’d love to hear them, because there’s no _chance_ he would’ve agreed to going on his own.”

“That’s not the point,” Niki hisses. “The point is that going or not going is _his_ decision to make. Not mine, not yours, not anyone else’s.”

“So is suicide,” Fundy whispers, voice cracking. All of the fight has drained from his tone. 

Through the flimsy plastic wall, he watches Niki’s silhouette cross the room and pull Fundy into a hug.

He turns and walks away. 

He cannot feel anything.

///

“Oh, Tubbo,” Niki murmurs, tightening her arms. “How can I help you? I’ll do anything.”

His sobs shake the entire bed. They are too strong. He cannot respond. 

“You’re going to be okay, sweetheart,” she whispers. She’s crying, too. “I promise. You’ve just got to hang in there, okay?”

He slumps further into her hold. 

“Just keep holding on,” she says. “You’ll see him again, someday. I _know_ you will. You _have_ to.”

His tears do not abate, but he decides that she is right.

He has to.

_Someday_.

///

Today is someday, and he pretends to sleep so that Niki leaves his room. 

He slips into Bad’s office. He steals the coordinates. He opens his Ender chest and drinks an invisibility potion. He equips his best armor. 

He sneaks away when everyone else has long fallen asleep. He makes it to the portal in minutes.

He crosses the Nether. He does not run into any mobs—he skirts around them all.

His feet carry him of their own accord, because he has lived in this scene every night for the past five months.

He searches and he searches and he searches.

///

“Surely not,” Tubbo says wetly. He stares at the tower. Tears choke his words. “Surely—surely not.”

He sinks. The sand burns his knees. 

It is the same—of course it is the same. It is his nightmare, but it is reality. He cannot tell them apart, but he must, and he _can,_ and that’s the worst part. He _can_ tell them apart. Because the cuts littering his skin drip blood and stain the sand. Because he can taste the salt with each inhale. Because there is bitter bile on his tongue. 

Because moments and minutes and hours pass, and he does not wake up. 

He does not wake up.

He is already awake.

///

He doesn’t know how much time passes before he makes the journey home. It may be days. It is probably years. 

He steps out of the community portal. 

“Tubbo!” Wilbur yells immediately. “Oh, Ender! Just in time! I came to visit like we planned, and everybody’s in a frenzy searching for you! I was just heading into the Nether to do my part!”

Tubbo drags his bloodshot eyes upward, to where Wilbur happens to be walking up the stairs. 

“Here,” Wilbur says, pulling something out of his pocket. “I have a present.”

Tubbo does not process a single word he says. He hardly hears him, hardly acknowledges him. 

“It’s a compass,” Wilbur says. “But it’s a _special_ compass. No matter where Tommy is, it’ll point you to him.”

Tubbo stares. 

“See?” Wilbur continues, pointing to an inscription on the metal. “ _Your Tommy_.”

Tubbo makes a strangled noise. 

Wilbur blinks his eyes away, and, for the first time, really looks at Tubbo. 

Tubbo collapses into sobs, collapses onto the floor. 

“Tubbo?” Wilbur asks. “Are you—are you all right?”

“ _No_ ,” Tubbo wails. “ _No_. Noth—nothing will ev—ever be all—all right again.”

Wilbur sinks into a crouch and frantically asks him what’s wrong, what happened, where he’s been, but Tubbo cannot hear him. Tubbo cannot see him. Tubbo cannot understand him. 

All Tubbo hears is the beach’s silence. All Tubbo sees is the towering pillar. All Tubbo understands is that Tommy is gone, Tommy is _gone, Tommy is gone._

He wishes he was gone, too.

He was never prepared to handle the pain of his nightmares. If he could not even handle that pain, how is he supposed to handle this? How is he supposed to—how is he—

Tommy is _gone_. 

He cannot live in a world without Tommy, and Tommy is _gone_.

He is _awake,_ he is _conscious_ —this is not a nightmare. 

_Tommy is gone_.

He should have run faster. He should have left sooner. 

He was not fast enough. 

He has never been fast enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sadnessssssss
> 
> Thank you for reading! Hope you liked it:) I'd love to hear what you thought!

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  * [quiet, like the snow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28992819) by [ColorsofaYinYang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorsofaYinYang/pseuds/ColorsofaYinYang)




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